Open Mouth, Insert Foot

So there I am, sipping a beer with a nice gentleman, chatting casually about Burning Man when he asked me a question.

I HEARD him ask, “So what’s was your favorite part of Burning Man?

My response?

The sex.

You just can’t save me from myself, can you?

He leaned in closer to me and asked, “Like sex on the beach?”


What did you just ask me?

APPARENTLY, he asked me what was my favorite DRINK at Burning Man.



Now he knows that I’m a horn dog.


He knows I’m honest to a fault.

That must count for something!


In my family, there’s something called a Zezza butt.

It’s a really nice ass, larger than most, but perky and round.

I’ve got a Zezza butt.

As does my cousin Jennifer and my brother Art.

We’ve even taken a picture of all our asses, lined up (I’m #2 in the lineup).

Not everyone likes Zezza butt, but they should.

It’s pretty awesome.

I recall one instance in fact when a very athletic burner requested that we fool around in his RV SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE HE WANTED TO SEE “DAT ASS.”

It has slowly dawned on me that some people like curvy women.

Some people like slim women.

And some people LIKE ALL WOMEN.

I’ve given up trying to hide my body, which will never look like Heidi Klum’s, and am working on embracing all that JUNK IN MY TRUNK.

Starting with buying some short shorts for the Burn.

Okay, I DID buy a pair of shorts a few weeks ago that were (optimistically) two sizes smaller than my current size.

I’ve now replaced those shorts with booty hugging, booty boosting, putting-it-all-on-display jean shorts.

Four pairs, to be exact.

That way I’m sure to find something I like.

No, I won’t look like Jessica Simpson in my shorts but fuck, I like my thick thighs.

And other people do too.

They feel just as good wrapped around a sturdy man as slim ones.

And stuffing all my jelly into a pair of Daisy Dukes just gives me a little thrill.

Hope it gives you a thrill too. . .

Dear Future Boyfriend

Dear Future Boyfriend,

You’re late.

Normally, this wouldn’t bug me but you’re REALLY late.

Therefore I have a few things to tell you.

I’ve been busy.

Somewhere between my divorce at 30 and turning 45, I managed to cram a lot of living into my life.

I waited for you but since you didn’t show, I did it myself.

  • Running with the bulls.
  • Racing stock cars.
  • Orgasmic meditation.
  • Catered camping trips.
  • Burning Man.
  • Skydiving.

And so much more.

Along the way, I got an education about life, love, men and strangely enough BDSM activities.

More on that later.

I think giving me extra time has helped to improve my communication skills, my ability to connect intimately with someone else, and has overall made me a more suitable partner for someone special.

Here’s a few of the things I have learned.

  • Your friends are your lifeline.

It’s the person you can call at 2 am when you find out your mom is in heart failure who you can measure the quality of your life with.

  • Family is everything.

They’re always there, supporting you, pushing you on, cheering for you.

  • Boyfriends aren’t all that.

It’s true.  I want to love and be loved in return but I’m not dying without a relationship.  Matter of fact, being single has made me a more interesting person, I think.  Look at everything I’ve done to distract myself.

  • Personal growth is hard. And uncomfortable.

I’ve tested my edges.  Dated men who were totally inappropriate for me.  Explored activities (such as BDSM) which would make a grown man blush.  I can honestly say that although it’s difficult, spending time outside one’s comfort zone is where personal development really happens.

  • I know myself.

I know myself and I hope to continue to get to know myself alongside you.  I don’t believe in personal stagnation so if we push each other to do more, experience more, have more, then that’s a good thing in my book.

There’s not much more to say except that the instant I fell in love with you, I overlooked your tardiness.

Because the important thing is not WHEN we met, but THAT we met.


The Swede has proposed to me at least three times.

Now, when I say PROPOSED, I mean “proposed.”

Basically, he texted me his proposal and followed it with a wink.

I find this absolutely hilarious and I can’t wait until he “proposes” again.

The thing about The Swede is this.

I like him SO VERY MUCH but given that I only see him twice a year (and lately not even that often), I don’t know him well enough to move in and settle down with him despite the fact that I like his family, his children, and I’m not against moving to Sweden.

There are obvious benefits to living in Sweden.

For one, there’s no grifter President Trump running Sweden.

Sweden has a Royal Family and we all know how much I love Royals.

On the other hand my Swedish is atrocious, I’ve never lived in snow, and it’s very far away from Burning Man.

Le sigh.

I have been advised by another Swede to take The Swede’s proposals more seriously than I am.

Perhaps they do things differently in Sweden but in the USA, if there’s not a ring then it’s not a proposal.

And last I checked, proposals followed by winks NEGATE the proposal.

It’s fun to think about though.

Which is why I’m amused each time he suggests we get married.

And The Swede has not one, not two, but THREE wonderful kids I could absorb into my family.

Get them all US citizenship.

Get dual Swedish / US citizenship for myself.

Learn to speak Swedish properly.

See, I’ve thought this out a little.


Fingers Crossed

Elon Musk took his FIVE sons to a pumpkin patch.

That’s right.

The CEO and founder of SpaceX and Tesla, Inc. has FIVE sons.

I’m less concerned with how something like that happened and more concerned with how wonderful and chaotic it must be to be the father of FIVE BOYS.

I know it was CRAZY with my two.

Elon’s five boys remind me how very badly I want to have more children.

I thought for sure it would happen in the years after I got divorced.

I was sure I’d meet someone special, settle down, and maybe have a girl or two.

Or another boy.

I’ll always feel like my family is too small since I lost Douglas and Ruby.

Missing children.

It is my lot in life to carry around the burden of having lost children.

I have, by no means, cornered the market in this area and I am aware there are bigger burdens than mine.


I want more kids.

Now, I’ve TOTALLY given up on the idea of having more kids of my own.

I’m too close to the tail end of raising my boys to turn around and start all over.

But reading about Elon Musk’s abundance of children, I am struck with the hope that perhaps, if I’m lucky, I will meet someone special who has children of his own.

The game is not lost, my friends.

I could still wind up with a girl or another boy.

I am struck, given my own adoption background, how families are made in all different ways.

I happen to have two mothers and two fathers, an abundance of siblings (six), and even more cousins, aunts and uncles.

So I know better than anyone that more than blood makes a family.

There’s hope for me.

I might get more kids yet!

Fingers crossed.


Difficult Discussions

Some things are very hard for me to talk about.

I know this because the moment a sensitive topic gets brought up, I abruptly change the subject.

Pretty much anything related to our grifter President Trump gets me upset.

I literally have to beg my parents to stop ranting about him, because it upsets me so much.

And I take anti-anxiety medication on a regular basis.

Go figure.

The other day, my sister brought up Matthew Shepard.

It was the 20 year anniversary of his death, brought on by a hate crime beating because he was gay.

I have to pause and capture my thoughts.

I can’t imagine anything worse than losing a loved one to a hate crime.

The idea that someone I love could be HATED so much that they are killed by another person makes me want to cry.

Needless to say, I worry about my son.

He’s such an artistic, gentle soul.

I barely managed to speak to him about Matthew Shepard, but I did.

Because it’s important.

And as much as I believe the onus of good behavior should fall on every person, I reminded my son to take measures to protect himself from people who would harm him for his orientation.

And then I hid in my room and I cried.

Because we live in a world where I need to have this conversation.

Let’s change that.


Giving up dating

So, I have a dilemma.

I’ve given up internet dating.

This is a good thing.

Internet dating was damaging my view of men in the Bay Area.

I felt stuck in a porno, unable to escape.

Every man wanted sex – from the guy who described his ideal woman as someone without a gag reflex to the guy whose username was Luv2eatacos.

Fuck actually making a connection with someone.

This I think, is not the norm.


I mean of course men want sex.

Everyone does.

But I think there are men out there who are single, available, and NOT TOTALLY OBSESSED WITH SEX.

Let’s call them Men-Who-Can-Make-Meaningful-Connections-With-Women.

My dilemma is this:


They’re OBVIOUSLY not online.

So where do I go?

The supermarket?

The library?

Hobby shops?

Sports games?

Please, someone tell me because the only thing I hate more than giving up is giving up and doing nothing about it.

I have no intention of wallowing in misery, alone for the rest of my life.

But I also have no intention of going back online to play the nymphomaniac to men who think that women are sex objects.

Should I just leave it to serendipity or should I somehow mix and mingle and put myself out there?


Guilty Pleasures

I have A LOT of guilty pleasures.

Music by ABBA.

The smell of neoprene.

Shiny black vinyl lingerie.

I’m not a NKOTB fan, nor am I a Justin Bieber Fan.

Although, I did see the Biebs in concert with Barbara and I must say, that boy can sing AND dance.

One thing I’m almost loathe to admit is my fondness for the Royal family.

Yes, that’s right.

I’m not British but I have a “thing” for the Princes and Princesses of England.

It’s embarrassing, really.

But I simply LOVE to see what they are wearing.

I love to watch them get married, settle down, have babies.

Of course it was fun when Prince Harry was partying in Vegas wearing nothing but a hand towel. . .

That happened, right?

I’m sure I can’t find a picture of it anymore, with the Royal family purging their royal escapades.

Anyway, I was happy to surf on in to Princess Eugenie’s wedding to scope out her dress and the dresses of all her guests.

Some looked quite lovely, like Naomi Campbell.

Others, like Peaches Geldolf, not so much.

Anyway, all this is to say that even though I LOVE to watch the Royals, I also HATE my obsession with it and therefore I consider it a VERY DIRTY GUILTY PLEASURE.

I personally think it’s better to live you own life to the fullest every day rather than obsess about the lives of others.

But that’s just me.


That Voice

There’s this nasty voice in our heads that likes to talk to us when it’s quiet and we’re left alone to our own thoughts.

Lately, my voice has been RAGING at me.

You’re not good enough.

You’re not smart enough.

You’re not pretty enough.

You’re not successful enough.

You’re not thin enough.

Enough. Enough! ENOUGH!

I’ve had it with this voice!

Have you ever heard of neuroplasticity?

It’s the brain’s ability to form new neural connections throughout life.

I want to train my brain to stop thinking this way.

And where the fuck did I learn this from anyway?

Self-loathing isn’t present at birth.

It’s something we learn.

Well, if I can learn it then I can UNLEARN it.

So every time that voice goes off in my head, I let it.

I let it say its piece and get it all out in the open.

Then I calmly and confidently tell myself the exact opposite.

I’m extraordinary.

I’m brilliant.

I’m beautiful.

I’m talented.

I’m deliciously curvy.

I’m more than enough.


I suppose I could rely on my friends to tell me how wonderful I am.

But I figure that means I’ll always need a steady source of external validation.

Something I can’t count on.

So I’m learning it myself.

Let’s just hope my grey matter is ready to form new pathways.

My new hero?

Little Jessica (see her video below):

Novelty Seeking Gene

I have one copy of the Novelty Seeking gene.  [I worked in genetics for 5 years after I graduated college and I tested my own DNA against a lot of genetic markers.]

It’s a real thing and you can read about it here.

Besides attributing the existence of this blog to my poor memory (it’s my diary, of sorts), I also like to chronicle my adventures in blog posts.

I’ve run with the bulls.

Raced stock cars.

Kayaked with whales.

Took a Blow Job 101 class.

Posed for boudoir photos.

Gone to Burning Man four times.

Took an Orgasmic Meditation class.

Made beer.

Gone whale watching.

Sailed the Bay.

Caught salmon in the ocean.


And so much more.

I get bored easily so I’m always trying to plan my next adventure.

I also am always up for a dare.

Take for instance, the Bug Eating Dare.

Apparently, it’s a Korean delicacy to eat silkworm grub.

Yes, indeed.

And there I was, standing around the campfire, when someone offered me a grub.

My first instinct was to say no.

But then I thought, “Why not?”

It’s not as if I’ll ever get the chance to do this again.

And so I ate one.

I know what you’re wondering.

You’re wondering what it tasted like.

It tasted like dirt and had a gritty texture.

Delicacy, I don’t think so!

I spit it out into the fire.

So maybe it doesn’t count because I spit instead of swallowed, but I’ve eaten a Korean silkworm grub and I DID NOT LIKE IT!

Remind me to tell you about the time I ate chocolate covered ants.

Gotta love that novelty seeking gene!